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Taxing Our Patience

by James Finn Garner

As all us plebs pay the tax man,
You owners need to face some facts, man.

In suites with well-heeled sponsors and friends,
You claim your team pays civic dividends

Then you say you need new parks resplendent?
We fans should claim you as a dependent.

Taxes and slush are your basic income,
We ask for returns and you play dumb.

When voters at last come to their senses,
You scream and whine and talk moving expenses.

Pigs at the trough, courting our elected hoes —
Whatever way it’s adjusted is gross.

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Pitching Injuries — A Long List Early in the Season

by Stephen Jones

On the long, long IR line, of mostly
Pitchers early in the season,
You’re waiting to get into
MLB’s popular fragility club,
The club no one wants to join…

It’s your turn to flash the bouncer;
You show him your card with a picture —
It’s your elbow — and he looks,
Then declares: “What, another pitcher —
And a young one at that?” Then
He opines: “What’s with all you guys?”

You protest: “Hey, it’s not my fault.
Everyone’s always told me: Pitch harder,
Pitch faster — with more spin and torque!
I can’t help it if I’m young.” Words drift off.

The bouncer nods like a ballpark sage
Who’s seen it all, and thinks: “Don’t they
Know the human body has its limits,
Even when you’re young?”
But then he shrugs and lets you in.

 

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Say It Ain’t Sho

by Todd Herges

He arrived to throes
of joyous anticipation.
Say it ain’t Sho…

He went on to meet
About ev’ry expectation.
Just say no, Sho…

Discussed everywhere:
an awful new revelation.
Say it ain’t Sho…

The baseball world torn,
with the Cooperstown bronze dulling.
Say it ain’t Sho…

He pitches! Hits! Bets?
Despite first throes, the bloom is off
… Ohtani’s Rose.